Transposition
by tempusborealis
Summary: Dean had slowly shucked the shell-shocked man of his outer clothes as he stood, staring at the gaudy painting of lilies or whatever flower the abstract mess was supposed to be, and there the trenchcoat had lain on the itchy, oatmeal-colored carpet for the next two days.


**Pairing**: Dean/Cas  
**Rating**: PG-13 (T)  
**Disclaimer**: There'd be plenty of things that would be different if I owned _Supernatural_.  
**Spoilers**: I guess you should have watched until the end of season 7 for this to make sense, but it's probably not necessary.  
**Summary**: Dean had slowly shucked the shell-shocked man of his outer clothes as he stood, staring at the gaudy painting of lilies or whatever the fuck flower the abstract mess was supposed to be, and there the trenchcoat had lain on the itchy, oatmeal-colored carpet for the next two days.  
**Notes**: Written for _she-ranwithwolves'_ prompt **trenchcoat**. Unbetaed.

* * *

When Dean had gently pushed the trenchcoat from Castiel's shoulders that first night, the angel hadn't protested. The joy and adrenaline clear on his face as they'd embraced drained within a few minutes, leaving behind a weary countenance with a fine network of wrinkles and worry-lines that would have upset Dean had he taken the time to think about them.

They'd been in Wyoming that night. Sam had gone to get some food as soon as it was clear Cas was as fine as could be expected under the circumstances. Dean had slowly shucked the shell-shocked man of his outer clothes as he stood, staring at the gaudy painting of lilies or whatever the fuck flower the abstract mess was supposed to be, and there the trenchcoat had lain on the itchy, oatmeal-colored carpet for the next two days.

When things had calmed down (and Dean was sure Cas was solid and wouldn't just evaporate like so many hallucinations had before), it became clear that borrowed clothes wouldn't cut it anymore. Sam's clothes were far too large for Castiel, and while Dean got a sort of warmth under his ribs that he wouldn't admit to when Cas was wearing his clothes, something about them just didn't fit. Unfortunately, the trenchcoat was a complete bust – it was torn and dirtied beyond all hope of salvation. Dean had a lot of experience with dry cleaners and there was only so far their magic could go (though their discretion at some suspicious stains went leagues further, in Dean's book).

And so while Sam researched their next case at the local library, Dean took Cas shopping.

Dean knew where to find clothes for himself; he was very much the sort of 'like this shirt from this one chain store, buy it in 3 colors and don't go shopping again until all of them are unwearable then get the exact same thing' kind of guy. It was not really high on his list of things to do, but after fifteen minutes he conceded that everything he handed Cas just didn't look right. As he stood in the middle of the men's department and racked his brain, he focused on the scruffy mop he could see a few yards away (if Dean was honest, he was still nervous about letting that mop out of his sight). Its owner bent over a rack and Dean saw thin, pale digits fingering the dark charcoal fabric of a suit and it clicked. It looked like Cas wouldn't get a fashion upgrade after all.

Safely ensconced against the raw weather of late autumn within the stale heat of the borrowed motel room, Dean cracked open two beers as he waited for Cas to emerge from the bathroom. Violent, electric blue light reflecting off the garish paint of the bathroom framed the other man as he stepped out into the room proper and something in Dean's chest compacted itself into a dense ball of _rightness_ and something else he couldn't put a name to.

His shoulders were hunched and his hands were shoved into his pockets. Cas looked…small. Exhausted, even after a few nights' quiet, hot meals, and comforting company. But there was a healthy ruddiness to his cheeks that made Dean feel at ease, even as the angel glanced up at him shyly through his thick lashes and made Dean's stomach squirm. Covering, Dean quirked a smile and took a swig of Miller.

"There's the old Castiel."

With a slight smile in return, Cas' eyes shifted down to the floor and Dean could see them focus on the trench, forgotten on the floor. He felt both men take a pause, wondering what to do with the coat. Cas was the first to move. He knelt and lifted the stained fabric gingerly, running his hands over the tattered seams. After a moment, he methodically folded it into a neat square and placed it at the bottom of the empty duffle Sam had produced for his use; Dean let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. Cas' eyes shot up to hold Dean's. He was searching for approval and Dean willingly let his relief bleed through his gaze as he handed the other man a beer. Castiel took it haltingly, adjusting himself to the human custom, but took a sip of his drink with an easy sort of nonchalance. He was learning. A few moments passed, then he broke the silence.

"I believe I require a new coat."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, you're gonna need it this time of year. What do you think about another trenchcoat?"


End file.
